


Dance Dance

by TheSparksofMagic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Step Up (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dance school AU, Homophobic Language, Multi, OCs - Freeform, Step Up (film) AU, Unfinished, abandoned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSparksofMagic/pseuds/TheSparksofMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UsUk Step Up AU.<br/>Alfred is a street dancer and when he is sent to work as a cleaner at the Arts School he broke into, he meets the ballet and contemporary dancer, Arthur. UST, embarrassing best friends and sexy dancing ensue.</p><p>(This fic will not be continued, and is unfinished. I am leaving it in the archive as a record of my writing, as I'm proud of the little that's here. Thank you to everyone who did read it, and my apologies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for taking a look at my AU (A prompt from the wonderful Otpfandomnerd on Tumblr) and I hope you enjoy.  
> Just a warning, the UsUk could be a little while coming, since my Arthur seems to be in complete denial over life.

The lights flashed and pulsed like a heart beat, filling the club with blinding greens and hypnotic blues. Skin was dyed in the rainbow of colours, fingertips purple and legs aqua and the occasional strip of stomach a blood red. Bodies moved and writhed against each other, arms and legs and chests mashed together and rolling hips crashed like waves. Rhythmic bass being pumped from the floor to ceiling speakers flowed from one song to the next without a pause, the only difference in them being the tone of the voice overlaying it. Hair was flicked from side to side as heads bopped up and down and around, slick with sweat. The smell of it was heady and overpowering, permeating the whole room; the salty tang was inescapable, much like the presence of alcohol. Every sense became heightened as minds became drunk on booze and energy, fuzzy and muted but oh so much better than sober.

It wasn't the only presence though.

Lust gave the club a dangerous edge, with everyone trying to gain some sliver of potentially sexual attention, dancing in blatantly provocative ways and grinding their bodies together like rutting animals. It wasn't so much dancing as public foreplay.

Alfred loved it. Some dark haired beauty was pushed up against his chest and running their hands all over his body whilst he shimmied and shook his torso with a flirtatious grin lifting the corners of his mouth. Their fingers blazed a trail of fire over his biceps with ease and their cherry red lips were wet and plump. Hazel eyes burnt with the same heat, making Alfred feel hot all over. They moved together for what felt like minutes, but probably passed well over that. Eventually those lips grazed his ear, muttering in a low voice that he could only just hear over the music.

“Hey, Mr, wanna come get a drink? I reckon you're thirsty for something by now...” Alfred felt himself nodding before he even realised what he was doing. One of those hands tightened onto his wrist and he was dragged to the bar, where the music was still pounding, but not quite so deafening. The lights were white rather than pulsing, and Alfred could see his... dance partner so much better.

_Okay,_ he thought absently,  _not as good as I thought._ The man was practically pretty, with huge eyeliner-rimmed eyes and messy brown hair. Not his usual type, although the slim body was definitely a turn on. Good enough for a night though. Definitely.

“So, what's your name, stranger? I didn't catch it earlier.” The man raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow as he spoke, resting on the bar with his back arched. Alfred lowered his voice into what should probably have been called a purr, leaning in close to the other man.

“Alfred,” he drawled, “And what name do you want me to be screaming?” The man raised the other eyebrow, smirk growing predatory.

“You can call me Owen, _Alfred_.”

Their faces were so close now that Alfred could've bent his head forward an inch and kissed those tantalising lips, and he was about to when a huge hand grasped the back of his neck and pulled him upright. He wrenched the hand off by the wrist and spun around fuming, ignoring the squeaky gasp from the Owen guy.

“Get the fuck off me retard, do you _want_ your fucking face smashed in?”

The resulting brawl had Alfred and his assailant throw bodily out of the club into the cool March air, with the hazel eyed Owen quickly returning to the dance floor in search for easier prey. The two men walked in silence down the empty side streets, sticking to the shadowed routes and run down alleyways. Occasionally someone would pass them, but neither of them noticed or cared. 

 

 

  
It was almost half an hour before Alfred's assailant stopped by an abandoned basketball pitch under a dilapidated and graffiti covered bridge, where another young man was standing, swinging a keyring around his index finger. Alfred turned to face the other two men, who both stood with their arms folded and were gaping at Alfred in a mixture of revulsion and complete shock. The first man was huge, towering above even Alfred (who was a tall guy), with a crooked nose and a yellow scarf that did nothing to lessen his terrifying appearance. The new man was smaller and an albino, with snow white skin, hair like ice and demonic red eyes.

“Well?” Alfred demanded, breaking the silence with a yell, “What you gonna say? That I'm disgusting? I'm some sorta scummy cock sucker? Because I'll tell you, I may like dick, but I'll break your nose again any day, you motherfucker Ivan!”

The tall man, Ivan, just smiled and nudged the albino, who started laughing. It wasn't a warm laugh, but a cold, slow cackle.

“Look, Al,” he began, “When we got that message that you weren't at Mattie's, but you were hanging around down in the gay club, we thought it was a joke, you know? But we thought, hey, let's check it out. See if we can find some pussy down there instead. And guess what we find? You, and your little gay friend.”

Alfred paled at the sight of Ivan clenching his fist and but stood straighter, pushing his shoulders back. “Yeah, so what, Gil? I like a little less tit when they're sucking my cock. I ain't some pussy!”

Gil's smile cracked wider.

“Prove it. Come with me, show us you're not. We're going to that posh-ass dance school place tonight,” Gil grinned at Ivan as he said this, and produced a baseball bat from behind his back that Alfred hadn't noticed. “Gonna smash some trophies, do a bit of fucking shit up. You wanted to get in there a few years ago didn't you? Hey, now's your chance, gay-boy.”

Gil could see he'd struck a nerve with the dancing jibe. Alfred was red and fuming, his head hung and his fists clenched tightly. Even his breathing seemed ragged and heavy. 

 

The whole gang knew Alfred wanted to be a dancer, knew he hung and performed with the street dancers to get a bit of money, knew that if he could afford it he'd had left for the dance school long ago. He was good, and Gil knew it; hell, he even helped him get in with the street dancers for free shows and a cut of the money.

“Fine,” Alfred replied, “Let's go. I haven't cared about that place for years now, and you know it.”

All three pretended they hadn't heard the bare-faced lie colouring his words.

 

^^^^^^^^^^

 

The three stood by the glass doors that led into the back of the college, scanning the area for any onlookers.

“Looks like there's no one here,” Gil muttered under his breath. “Ivan, this is the one I told you 'bout, the one with the broken security. You gonna bust the door? ” Ivan snatched the baseball bat out of Gil's outstretched hand and swung it over his shoulder. Terrified, Alfred watched as he sauntered up the glass, cocked his head and shattered it in one swift movement. The resulting crash echoed throughout the empty pathway, making Alfred tense. Shards of glass had been scattered all over the floor, looking like diamonds, or slivers of ice in the moonlight. After a minute of terse silence, Gil breathed out a shaky laugh.

“Wicked. Let's go.” He clambered through the hole Ivan had created, contorting a little strangely so as not to be sliced to ribbons by the sharp pieces left, since any blood could be traced back to them. Ivan followed suit, ducking to avoid the door frame.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred took a step forward and shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets. His heart was thundering so loudly that Alfred feared (deep inside himself) that it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest, and he could feel it in every single vein and artery that ran through his body. But, it wasn't just scaring him. The thrill of being caught, doing something dangerous and _wrong_ was sending sparks of exhilaration down his spine, a feeling he hadn't really felt for months, caged by his need to keep his head turned away from the wrong side of the law. Three cases in five years was pushing it by any means, and he didn't want to be sent to prison at 19. Yet here he was, breaking into the most prestigious art school in the state, because he couldn't say no for the sake of his pride.

“Hey, Al, hurry up! You're going to get lost, and we ain't coming to find you.” Gil's voice jumped out from the darkness, and Alfred realised that he was idling in the doorway, whilst Gil and Ivan had wandered up ahead. He jogged to catch up with them, squinting to see his surroundings.

They were in a corridor, which, although dark and shadowed, looked clean and well-kept. Cabinets and trophy cases lined the walls, as well as paintings in frames, whose details Alfred couldn't make out. Peering through the windows in the doors, Alfred could make out easels, tarpaulins covering models, musical instruments stacked delicately against one another and huge assortments of different equipments. As he passed one door without any handy peep-holes, he stopped, pulling his phone out of his pocket and using the screen as a torch. Curiosity had the better of him, and he called out to the others.

“Hey, come over here. Let's see what's through here.” he laughed, “Maybe it's an office or something...”

The double doors were painted a dark colour, and had pristine bronze handles that shone brightly under Alfred's phone light. Gil and Ivan appeared behind him, laughing loudly due to the adrenaline rush the danger of being caught created.

“Wicked,” grinned Gil, punching Alfred's shoulder in a playful gesture. “Ivan can get us in here, easy as pie.” Ivan hefted the bat again, pushing it under the two handles at once. His purple eyes glinted as he heaved the two ends of the bat, the resulting creak and groan from the door making Alfred flinch involuntarily.

A metallic clang told all three that the lock was broken, and a crack appeared between the two doors, sending a slim line of green light bouncing across the hall floor behind them. They shared a loaded look before Alfred pushed open the door, slipping into the new area revealed to them.

He entered the back of a theatre auditorium, filled with hundreds of plush red seats that were folded down neatly. A huge stage covered in props and curtains was illuminated by green emergency exit lights. Alfred took in the sights, looking up at row upon row of stage lights hanging from the ceiling and at the huge speakers surrounding the whole auditorium.

A loud whoop of excitement came from Gil, who had followed Alfred in without him realising. Ivan stood beside him, and without him saying anything, Alfred could tell he was actually nervous. It wasn't so much knowledge, as a feeling that came from knowing someone for far too long.

“He's being too noisy,” Alfred muttered, understanding the reasoning behind Ivan's fear. The tall man looked on Gil, or Gilbert, as a substitute brother, since he had found him nearly frozen to death on the streets of his home town, somewhere in Russia. Gil had then lived with Ivan and his family until they moved to New York almost eleven years ago, where Alfred had met them. He was fiercely protective of those he believed were his friends (and despite what it looked like to outsiders of their little group, Alfred counted himself one of those people) and did everything he could to keep Gil out of prison, even if that meant being sent down instead. There was no stopping Gil once he had an idea, only covering the trail of destruction.

Ivan nodded slowly, “Yes. Let's go shut him up, then we can have some fun, da?” He stormed up to the stage, where Gil was flinging himself across the various props and wrapping curtains and cloths around his body like dresses.

Alfred jogged up too, chuckling under his breath. Gil yelled out to him, words spilling from his mouth in a torrent of energy as he stood on top of what looked like a giant Toblerone package, but painted black.

“Hey, Al, come look at this, it's so cool, look, it's like a trumpet but it's _bigger_ , I bet I can smash it. Do you reckon I can, I think I can, it looks fairly flimsy, I bet even a weak pansy like you could do it. Here, come have a go, I bet you can- Oh God, china busts! They'll smash awesomely, fucking _clouds_ of dust!”

Caught up in Gil's infectious hysteria, Alfred leapt up onto the stage, back flipping over the small microphones along the edge, just because he could. Ivan's deep chuckle made Gil cackle even harder, and fling a wiry arm around Alfred's shoulders when he'd found his feet again.

“Kesesesese, that was fucking brilliant, do it again!” His teeth glowed with a slight purple tinge, from a ultraviolet light hidden in the wings. Alfred realised Gil had put his gay issue behind him (for that moment at any rate) and was being perfectly friendly again, and he felt all the tension flood out of muscles. The rush of energy yanked the corners of his mouth up into a cocky smirk, and he shook Gil off of him, rubbing his hands together. He threw his body back into the arc that had taken him two trips into hospital to perfect, curving off the stage and back down onto the top of one of the folded chairs. Ivan clapped, the slapping sound echoing in the acoustics of the airy room.

“Very good,” he smiled, “Show us more, da? You are on a stage, after all.”

Gil screamed his appreciation for Ivan's idea, jumping off the block with a drape wrapped around him like a shawl, “Yeah, go Al! Bust some moves!”

Always willing to perform, Al clambered back up onto the stage, and ran upstage, right at the front. With an exaggerated wink to Gil, he began twisting and popping his arms, kicking his legs in time to the music that permanently ran through his head. He rolled his whole body down in a wave, flicking his heels up as the palms of his hands hit the floor, then flipped up into a one handed handstand. He spun in time to Ivan and Gil's cheering and clapping, laughing and swearing along. He tumbled and twisted around the stage, leaning on the props and occasionally Gil if he was too close to avoid. Closing his eyes, he tried to backflip twice in a row, but on the landing of his second flip, Ivan shouted for him to stop. Startled, he fell, crashing into one of the china busts and cracking it down the middle with his head. As he lay in an aching heap, Alfred vaguely registered Gil's panicked tone.

“Oh fuck, we have to get out of here, the security's coming and the set's fucked up and broken, come _on_ , pick up Al and get the fuck out!”

Alfred cracked an eyelid open and saw the faint shadows of the guards coming from a side-door none of them had noticed before.

“Guys,” he croaked, the blood rushing to his head, “Just leave me here, I'll be good, you get out.”

“But-”

“No. He's right, go, Gil.” Ivan flashed a sorry smile at Alfred and pushed Gil out towards the corridor they had entered from, leaping over the seats. Alfred felt himself fall unconscious as the blow to his head worked on his brain, but still heard the voices of the security guards as he drifted away.

“Yeah, we got one, but he's injured, and the others got away...”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we meet Arthur

A low buzzing at the base of Alfred's skull pulled him out of his unconscious state, but as soon as he tried to sit up, it fanned itself into an orchestra of white noise and white hot pain.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, oooow! Shiiit, that _hurts_... Damn...” Alfred groaned, pushing his hands through his hair in an futile attempt to ease the scorching pain that was trying to melt his brain into a lava pool. Unsurprisingly, it did little to help, but when he opened his eyes for the first time, he finally saw the group of 4 men and women standing around him with various expressions on their faces.

One looked curious, his eyebrows knitted together and his head cocked to the left a little. Next to him, a fierce looking blonde woman had her arms folded and was glaring down at him as if he was a piece of gum on the bottom of her perfectly shined shoes. Even her nose scrunched up in disgust. The other two men appeared impassive, although Alfred could tell that the taller of the two didn't appreciate his gutter mouth.

“Hello sir,” the woman's voice dripped with honey, smooth and clear, “If you'd like to come with us, we have a few questions for you.”

It was with those words that Alfred found himself bundled into the back of a police car and driven straight to the station, where he was interviewed, had his fingerprints taken and sent back home with a court order demanding his presence in three days clutched in his sweaty hand. He tumbled out of the heavy double doors, tired, dirty, sweaty and still wearing the clothes he'd worn to go to that God damned club.

“Figures,” he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders and setting off back to his house, “All this and I still didn't get fucking laid.” The street lamps illuminated the streets with an ethereal glow, as golden as the sunset but not nearly as warm. Alfred shivered, his skin swathed in waves of goosebumps and his tan somehow bleached out even even the orange light. The clouds hid any natural light from the moon and the stars.   
Midnight in the city was an experience that Alfred could never be sure if he enjoyed or not. It never felt to him as if night existed in the centre; people were always bustling around, electric lights and neon adverts were permanently lit and cars zipped up and down the roads with only a little more space to manoeuvre. He loved the energy the city gave him, but something about having a city of light made him cringe. It came from the voice in the corner of his mind that sounded a lot like his level-headed younger brother, telling him that of course it wasn't always light; he'd seen enough of those inky black side streets, hidden from sight, where the bad boys and girls came out to play.

After all, people like Ivan were lost in those midnight mazes. He couldn't _not_ know.

A car whizzed by Alfred, splashing a wave of inky, oiled water up his leg. The cold sent a shock through his whole body, awakening him to his surroundings again. He glanced around, and was surprised to find himself already walking down the street beside his block of apartments. The tall brick building loomed ahead, most windows alight with the unmistakeable colour of fluorescent lights, the rest gaping black holes in the walls. Alfred knew without looking that one of those empty sockets was his home. His family probably hadn't realised he'd ever left.

It only took Alfred two minutes to make his way up to the apartment, even in the shadows of the corridors. The emergency exit lights threw stretching patterns up the walls, but weren't bright enough for any form of visibility, yet nevertheless, he managed to climb up the stairs without slipping in any puddles of anything nasty. He'd experienced that more than once before and was not in the mood to do so again in a hurry.

When he reached the door to his apartment, he couldn't help the sick feeling that rose up inside his stomach at the knowledge of what he knew was going to be inside. Already he could hear the muted sounds of deep, rumbling laughter and the unmistakeable chinking of glass bottles, whilst the tang of cigar smoke curling from under the door made his fingers itch for his own emergency cigarettes that were stashed under his bed for the more difficult days of life. High pitched false laughter could be heard as well, flighty and almost nervous.

Alfred knew precisely what each thing meant for his evening; his step-father was gambling with his 'friends' from the office, and making his mother serve them all hand and foot whilst they laid around smoking and slipping further into drunk idiocy the later the night became. The image of his mother, with her grey roots showing beneath the bleached blonde and the dark purple bags under her eyes not at all hidden by crusty layers of make-up, forced Alfred to push open the door, and face the music.

“Boy, you get over here _now._ What on Earth are you doing entering _my_ home at this time of night with no explanation of why?” His step-father's voice emanated from the main room, raspy from years of smoking and cruel with contempt that Alfred knew would be curling the corner of his lips.

“You knew where I was, twat-face, and I'm 19, I can do whatever I like.” Alfred sauntered through the door way, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and blowing a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes. Sitting at the large round table in the centre of the room were 5 men, all dressed in sharp suits, but not one of them without either a cigarette or a drink in their hands. The man who had spoken, Alfred's step-father, rose a little unsteadily to his feet and Alfred watched with disgusted detachment as the rolls of fat hanging from his chin wobbled and shook. A chubby finger stained by nicotine pointed at Alfred, and he replied in a voice as dark as a thundercloud.

“Do not speak to me like that. Get out of my sight, and put some proper clothes on while you're at it. I'm not having anyone living here wandering around with a shirt on whilst I can still see their chest.”

Alfred snorted and carried on walking to his room. He could feel the judgemental eyes burning holes into his back from the other men, and felt a twinge of rebellion flutter through his ribcage. The feeling wasn't an uncommon one, but was usually what managed to land Alfred in deep trouble; on an ordinary day, with no alcohol warming his blood, he'd ignore it. At that moment however, he couldn't resist the lure of a little bit of mischief. He was already in trouble with the law – one joke couldn't make any difference whatsoever.

Turning on his heel, Alfred bit his lip in the most deliberately sexual way he could, widening his eyes and cocking his hips.

“Oh, but Jonathan, my man, my most wonderful of arrogant step-fathers, you _know_ Scotty here loves it. He'd miss it terribly if I stopped.”

The outraged shouting followed Alfred all the way into his room, where he fled as if lightning was on his heels. The silent darkness of his bedroom cooled his adrenaline pumped blood, and he began to feel the effects of his headache in their full glory for the first time since he had woken up. Dull, dry thumping bashed at his skull and brain, and Alfred groaned out loud, flopping back onto his bed fully clothed. There, he laid spread-eagled and in pain, all the scattered thoughts begging for his attention simply making everything worse. A restlessness overcame him, and he found his fingers itching for something to do that wouldn't be any hassle, issue or dilemma for anyone (especially himself), which quickly spread to his legs and feet and toes once he allowed his fevered mind to acknowledge it.

He didn't know what he could do to stop the urge ( _dance, dance, he could always_ _ **dance**_ ) and he pushed the restlessness away, willing his toes to stop curling and pointing in random actions ( _they were dancing)_.

Sleep didn't come easy for Alfred that night, nor for any in the lead up to his trial.

/////

Once his family had finished their ranting and raving on Alfred's court day about why exactly they hadn't been made aware of the fact that he'd been arrested again, Alfred's day ran surprising smoothly.

His sentence was a grim measure, but not the worst it could have possibly been; three months doing voluntary cleaning and grounds keeper work at the Arts and Dance school campus for three days in the school day and two afterwards, starting on the next day, where he was to report to Principal Vargas at 11 o'clock.

Alfred had intensely mixed feelings about being sent to “pay off his debts owed to the Arts School” by working there. On one hand, he had lusted in secret after a place at the school and a chance to learn to dance properly since he was 10 or 11, and although he wouldn't have the chance to actually learn, he could always sneak a peek into some lessons.

On the other, the same desire to enrol was causing his insides to flare and burn in jealously and anger that was mainly directed at himself. He would be around proper, real art and dance students, who would see him only as the dick who trashed their stage and was having to pay for it, if they noticed him at all. He would never be seen as a dancer, not even if he managed by some miracle to perform in front of the entire college.

_It's gonna be a hellish few months,_ Alfred thought to himself as he left the courtroom, _but at least I might be able to ninja into a practise room._

///////////////////////////////////////////////////

Sitting on a park bench at the same time Alfred exited the courtroom, a man of a similar age ran his hands through his scruffy blond hair in frustration with a movement that was clearly born out of stressful habit. His dark green college hoodie was rumpled and swung low down his body, easily touching his mid thighs, and his jeans looked so tight and soft as to be his second skin; although the frayed rip in the left knee wasn't deliberate, the young man carried it as if it were designer.

A phone laid in the dip of his pushed together thighs, and he stared at it like it was his lifeline. He continued to sit and ruin his hairstyle for the next five minutes, intently watching his phone that still did nothing, until he appeared to give up and stash it in the rucksack littered with badges sprawled across his feet. When he had pulled the zip of the bag closed, a faint trill of a phone ringing muffled by cloth filled the air around him. The man swore, his accent harsher than the rest of the citizens who passed through the park, and dug his phone back out again with a glare at the screen and a tap of his foot.

He shoved it under his ear in the crook of his shoulder, and carried on rummaging through his rucksack. It was a few seconds before he spoke, and when he did, it was with a voice thick with anger and hurt.

“Yeah, Shannon, I get it, you're busy these days, but really? This was supposed to be a date, you could've at least _mentioned_ that you couldn't make it- No, I don't care if you told the whole world to tell me, I just would've appreciated a message from _you_! And seriously, you should know better than to tell Francis to pass on messages, everyone knows he's about as useful as a chocolate teapot.” Here the man stood up and switched the phone to the other ear, gesticulating without seeming to realise what he was doing. The hand not holding the mobile pulled the skin on his cheek around and curled long fingers over his eye, covering the dark damp irises. “Okay, look, I'll talk to you properly later. I've got to get back, I've made plans to practise with Eliza now.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, but the expression on his face was pained and he chewed on the side of his bottom lip before garbling a hasty, “Love you” into it and hanging up.

Picking up his rucksack, the blond man ran his hand through his hair again, pulling his head back and closing his eyes with a sigh. When the green eyes opened again, they were rimmed with a pinkish tinge that would only be noticeable if a person happened to be looking for it and were glassy enough to darken their bright green to a twilight forest.

He grimaced, and headed out of the park into the bustling streets of the city without moving his eyes anywhere but forwards and yet still seeing nothing.

Eventually the elegant metal and glass skyscrapers of the inner city gave way to smaller brick buildings, only one or two storeys high, and the young man headed into one such building with a growing smile on his face. As all the muscles in his back relaxed his shoulders lost their tautness and yet he stood taller than before, confidence bouncing his steps.

It was a low building, but wide, more common further from the centre of the city. One long window marred the wall facing the street, scarred itself by scratches and scrapes, and the paint on the door was peeling and blistered. A dark haired woman with a red flower tied into her hair rested on the door and waved at the blond with a wide grin.

When they were close enough to hear each other, she called out to him with a cheeky grin, her hand resting on her cocked hip.

“Hi, Arthur, are you ready to dance?”

“Yeah, let's go practice. Two months to go, right?” he replied.

“Two months, Arthur! My God, there's so little time, this is _crazy_....” She threw her hands up in the air, pointing to the cloudy sky and pushed herself off of the door to yank it open. The man, Arthur, laughed and followed her in as she flounced through into the dance studio with a grin as wide as the sky.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter and much later than expected... Sorry? This is my personal fan service story, of which I have written the smut for later chapters but not the chapters I should be writing.

Alfred watched the clock's second hand work its way around the face, over-lapping the hour hand once, twice, three times in what felt to him like endless hours. Each rhythmic tick boomed across the corridor as if it were a musket fire rather than a ticking plastic hand shaped like a pencil. It was 10 to 11, and Alfred could feel nervous jitters creeping up his limbs.

It had taken more than an ounce of courage to force himself to walk through the front doors of the college with his head held high, and not tucked away inside his hood. Alfred knew he had to make a semi-decent impression, or else he would find himself in a far worse position than the surprisingly cushy one he was in now. He was cleaning, or doing grounds work, or something equal in drab dullness, but at least he wasn't being made to do anything horrendous. Alfred had seen more than one of the guys Ivan and Gil hung around with sentenced to community work – emptying trash cans and sweeping the streets around the main city. Here, in the college, he could keep his head down low and pretend that he wasn't really serving a punishment for destroying private property.

Alfred stole a glance at the clock again, and was amazed to see that it was only a minute to 11. His eyes were drawn to the door in front of him and the brass nameplate screwed underneath the plastic window. It read 'Principal R. Vargas' and nothing else. Each beat of his heart seemed to grow louder and more painful when he was shadows moving from behind the window and heard two deep voices which were coming closer to the door. The clock to the side of Alfred chimed 11 o'clock, and on the dot, the door swung open. A long-haired, blond man whose entire body filled the entrance way gestured silently for Alfred to stand and follow him, before turning around and leaving Alfred more than a little confused. (Alfred, having spotted a small plait neatly braided into his hair, found it bizarrely amusing to see that such a stoic man would have one. It was difficult to suppress his giggles, but he did manage it.) Still, he picked up the rucksack he'd stashed under the plastic chair and headed into the office, where the blond man was standing beside a man who Alfred assumed was the Principal.

He was as tall as the other man, and just as broad chested, but his face was open and reasonably friendly considering the circumstances. He gestured to the chair in front of the desk he stood behind. Alfred slumped into it.

"Good morning, Mr Jones." The Principal's voice was smooth and calm. Alfred's head snapped up to look him in the eyes as he spoke, trying to appear confident and more in control than he felt. From the raised eyebrow the Principal was sporting, it was clear that it wasn't working. "My name is Mr Vargas, and you will address me as Principal Vargas or sir, and nothing else. Do you understand me?"

Despite his friendly appearance, Alfred could tell that Principal Vargas was not a man to be trifled with. His tone was light but demanded respect that he was obviously used to receiving. Alfred felt the urge to back chat rising, but remembering his precarious position in this hierarchy, kept his mouth shut.

"I asked you, Mr Jones, if you understood me." There was no question in Principal Vargas' voice. It was a statement that required an answer from Alfred and he knew that if didn't, there would be Hell to pay.

"Yes Principal Vargas. I understand you." said Alfred dryly.

"Then I will have Mr Beilschmidt explain what you will doing here. He is going to be supervising you at all times while you are working."

The blond man, Mr Beilschmidt, spoke roughly but quietly. "Number one - you will be cleaning the classrooms after the students have left. You will touch _none_ of the art works or unfinished pieces, nor will you move any props or costumes left in any room. Number two - you may speak to the students whilst you are here but only whilst they are not working. However you will not ask them to help you, nor will you accept any help you are offered. You will have a lunch hour at 1 and you may do with it as you will, as long as you stay out of the way and make no mess. If you don't bring your own lunch, you may buy food from the Lunch Halls. And number three - you will do exactly as you are told, at all times and you will arrive on time every day to receive your instructions. That is all." He inclined his head towards Principal Vargas and took a small step back.

Principal Vargas linked his hands behind his back and stared down at Alfred.

"Today," he said, "I'm going to take you on a..." There was a deliberate pause as Principal Vargas shot a glare at Alfred, his gaze flicking up and down his body in a critical manner as he took in his casual pose. " _Formal_ tour of the school. We will then return here so you can start work. Let's not waste any time, shall we?" He strode around the desk, picking up a folder from one of the various piles teetering on it as he did so, and handed it to Alfred. Opening it, it contained a map and a list of numbers and letters, ordered in a 1A, 1B, 2A, 2B structure that Alfred assumed signaled classrooms. The whole sheet was full. A tang of trepidation coiled low in Alfred's stomach at the sight.

He'd have to clean all of these?

"Mr Jones, if you will follow me please." sighed Principal Vargas. Alfred slid out of the chair, stretching his arm up above his head to start the blood running again. A rush of cold air accosted his stomach where his t-shirt lifted and he suppressed a squeak of surprise. Mr Beilschmidt tutted quietly, but not so inaudibly that Alfred didn't catch it, and he sneered back at him. Then he hurried after Principal Vargas, who had already left the office.

During the next hour Alfred found himself dragged around every classroom, studio and supply cupboard in the entire school at break-neck speed, accompanied by Principal Vargas' constant stream of facts about the school. All the students were in the classrooms, so Alfred found himself stealing longing glances at them as they worked surrounded by paints and music and fabrics of every colour under the sun.

Every art room was decked out with hanging sculptures, stacked, half-finished canvas still glistening wet with paint, and mountains upon mountains of brushes and pencils and pens and ink wells. The pupils flitted around like fairies splatted in splodges of flicked paint, staring critically at their works or else watching in curiosity as Alfred poked his head in to watch them.

Every music room was filled to the brim with instruments of all kinds, some balanced on slats on the walls, some stashed in precarious positions atop others in corners and others being played by eyes-closed, entranced musicians who didn't take notice of anything happening around them. Alfred couldn't hear any sounds due to what were no doubt sound proof walls, but could tell that if he opened any door, a flood of music would drown him in intense sensations.

Every dance studio was covered in mirrors and the walls painted stark whites and creams, the light streaming in from huge floor to ceiling windows bouncing around the rooms. These were the only places that Alfred found himself lingering around, despite the urge to be out of view of peeping, judgmental eyes, as he couldn't tear his own eyes away from the dancers inside. The young men and women were moving and twisting in every type of dance that he could possibly imagine. Tap and jazz and contemporary and ballroom and hip-hop and ballet - there were students practicing in every style.

One pair of the ballet students in particular caught Alfred's eye. They were the only ones practicing in a small side studio, and he could tell that they were fiercely dedicated to their rehearsal by the concentration on both of their faces. There was a slim blond man, a few years older than himself at around 21-22, holding a bare-footed woman by her hips straight up in the air. Her dark hair swung down loose but didn't touch her shoulders at all, since her body was as straight as an arrow in mid-air. Alfred watched in wonder as they twirled around the studio, the man practically flinging the woman with his powerful movements that looked almost impossible for his lean frame. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the man, until green eyes locked with his and he span around with a blush having being caught staring.

Principal Vargas quirked his eyebrow at the red flush flooding Alfred's cheeks and gestured at the pair of dancers.

“Two of our finest dancers. They are working on a piece for our end of year show-case performance. We should not disturb them.” He headed back down the corridor away from the studio, hands clasped behind his back, expecting Alfred to follow him.

Alfred took a last glimpse at the blond man, who was now leaning on one of the mirrored walls and laughing at something Alfred couldn't see. The man's back was arched in a subtle curve and his hand was threaded through his hair at the back of his head, pulling his shirt up a sliver (enough for Alfred to catch a glimpse of alabaster skin and carved hipbones where his sweatpants slipped low over his hips). Green eyes met his for the second time, and the gaze was curious and warm. The blood pumping through Alfred's cheeks spread all the way down his neck and further south-

With a hasty gulp of air, he turned tail and fled from the dance studios.

^^^

Arthur leant back onto the wall of the studio and thumped the back of his head onto it hard, his eyes closed and chest heaving. He could hear Elizabeta, his dance partner, fiddling with the sound system on the other side of the room, and laughed as Hungarian curses spilled from her lips out of frustration.

“Ach, shut your mouth, Kirkland! I saw you watching that guy by the window, you know. I'll tell Sophie she's got male competition now!” called Elizabeta, brandishing the CD wildly. Arthur rolled his eyes and mussed his hair even more than its usual mess with one sweaty hand, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips as he glanced towards the window looking into the studio. As he expected, the guy was still there, though turned away towards the corridor rather than looking at them as he had been before. Arthur eyed his profile with a smile.

He watched as the mystery viewer turned back to the window. Blue eyes met his for the second time, but this time they were unfocused and subtly lidded. _Who even is this guy?_ Arthur wondered, tilting his head to the side. _He must be new. Maybe an exchange student?_ Even as Arthur looked, a deep pink blush spread across his whole face, draining into his neck as well. He span around on his heel and rushed off down the corridor (Arthur did definitely and in no way watch his ass as he left. No way. He had a girlfriend. He wasn't watching random guys.).

“Right, of course. Let's do it once more, okay?”

“'Kay, Arthur. If it'll distract you from Mr Hot Blond!”

“Shut _up_ Eliza...”

Arthur peeled himself off the wall with a sigh. He held out a hand to Elizabeta, who had already slid another CD into the old sound system, and together they began their routine.

It started with a simple waltz-like spin that Elizabeta had coined the Roulette of Death, for the basic reason that it made her feel terribly dizzy if they did it too often, too quickly. With each rotation they drew further from each other, until they were at a full arm's length apart. The spin gained in speed until Arthur could only see a blur of white wall and silver mirror, then at the point where they could go no faster, he skipped backwards, pulling Elizabeta along as he did so. They knew the movement by heart, could do it with their eyes closed and their ears blocked.

Arthur could pinpoint the exact moment that everything went wrong. Elizabeta had faltered as he pulled out of the spin and just as he moved to catch her to stop her falling, her leg had given way. Crumpling to the floor, she groaned low and long in agony.

“Eliza? God, are you okay? What happened?” Arthur was frantic. Kneeling beside her, he hovered his hands helplessly over her leg, not wanting to touch anything and make it worse without knowing what was wrong.

“Arthur, you remember that _thing_ I pulled last week? I think I just tore it.” Elizabeta spoke through gritted teeth. “I need to see a nurse.”

 


End file.
